


what a picture is worth

by problematiquefave



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-21 00:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17033068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: Stressed with starting med school, Patroclus is looking forward to Achilles' visit — even though it means having to hide his massive crush.





	what a picture is worth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurons_fan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurons_fan/gifts).



“How are classes?”

Achilles’ voice is soft over the phone line and almost makes Patroclus melt. At least here, in the safety of his small, dark bedroom, he can let himself do just that. In front of him, he has to keep a straight face – has to keep his lips from curling, his eyes from shining. Here, he just has to keep his voice from shaking.

“Good,” he replies back. “Kind of hard. The teachers…” Ruthless, relentless, and merciless seem like overstatements so he wracks his mind for another descriptor. “They’re not going easy on us. Lots of homework.”

He chuckles and it sounds like music. Everything about him is music, from the guitar that never leaves his side to the angelic voice that makes crowds swoon, makes _Patroclus_ swoon. “You worked hard for this, Skops. _Med school_. Dad’s still boasting about you.”

_Your dad_ , he almost says, but he bites his tongue, tastes blood, and doesn’t. His dad isn’t his dad anymore. Peleus isn’t either but he’s closer, kinder. Took him in after Achilles turned begging eyes on the old man andnever complained about the food he had to buy or the time he took out of their day. If Peleus never bemoaned that than neither will Patroclus. It’s in the past, anyway.

“What about you? How’s the tour?”

There’s a moment of crackling of silence before Achilles responds, “Okay. The Salt Lake City paper wrote a bit about me, said good things.”

“Like what?”

“Good sound, creative lyrics – I’ve got the potential to go the distance,” he echoes, sounding almost bored by something that should excite him. Hopeful musicians live and die by things like this, don’t they? This is how they get noticed, get famous, right?

Actually, it doesn’t surprise Patroclus. Achilles loves his music – loved it enough to drop out of college one semester in, despite his mother’s fierce protests – but he’s never cared for the spotlight. Not when he won the state spelling bee in sixth grade, not when he became the star quarterback by sophomore year of high school, and certainly not now. It’s another thing he admires about him. It’s another thing he loves about him.

“You think you’ll be back home any time soon?” he asks, hope rising like a wave in his chess.

“Yeah. Mom’s birthday is coming up,” he says, and that hope sinks like a lead balloon. He can just imagine Thetis wrapping her perfectly manicured nails around his shoulder, dragging him off on a variety of things that Patroclus will never, ever been invited to. He’s so lost in the thought that he almost misses what Achilles says next. “You’ll be my first stop though. Does your lease allow overnights?”

“Yeah, but my roommates snore.”

He can hear Achilles’ smile.

 

 

Patroclus stares up at the moon, at the waning crescent glowing amidst the stars, as he waits for the last bus of the evening to arrive. He’s wrapped tightly in a wool coat and thick scarf but the cold refuses to be blocked out. It seeps to his bones, numbing his extremities, and turning his breath white. He would wait inside but it’s not much warmer and the air is stale, heavy with cigarette smoke and disinfectant. At least out here he can breathe.

And it’s not that he has to wait long; he’s standing there for fifteen, twenty minutes at most, before the bus lurches into the parking lot, coming to a halt with screeching breaks. It’s only a minute or two before the passengers pile out. Patroclus keeps his eyes peeled, searching for the familiar head of blonde hair.

Achilles is one of the last ones out. He’s got a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, a guitar case swinging by his legs, and his only protection from the cold is a tattered sweatshirt. He’d scold him for the lack of appropriate clothing but, if he knows Achilles at all, he knows that the other man doesn’t even feel the cold. There’s nothing in his body language that suggests he’s wrong, nothing about his saunter or grin. Even in the darkness, he’s as radiant and warm as the sun.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he greets.

Patroclus snorts. “That makes it sound like I had a choice.”

Achilles doesn’t acknowledge that, swinging an arm around his neck and half-guiding, half-dragging him towards the bus terminal. He takes a pit stop at the bathroom and then they’re in his car, luggage in the trunk and legs kicked up on the dashboard. Patroclus’ knuckles tighten around the steering wheel as he backs out of the parking lot – butterflies flapping their wings in his stomach. It feels like an eternity since they’ve been face to face and he’s not sure if it’s different or the same. But he likes it, despite the anxiety.

His nimble fingers flick on the radio as Patroclus starts taking them in the direction of his apartment, flipping through station after station before turning it off with a sigh. The silence doesn’t last long. “Let’s get breakfast,” he says.

“It’s two in the morning,” he replies, slowing at a stop light. The streets are deserted in this area of the city.

“Breakfast is in the morning.”

Patroclus glances over at him, primed to argue, but he’s face to face with those pleading eyes, that smile he can never resist, and he sighs. He turns on his turn signal and cruises the streets until he finds a twenty-four hour diner.

It’s a little shady; besides them, there’s only three other customers. They’re outnumbered by the red-eyed staff but Achilles charms them like everyone else in his life. The waitress, with her large head of curls and bright pink lips, pours them both cups of coffee and says it’s on the house. She adds a wink for good measure.

Patroclus picks up his menu, flipping through the grimy pages even though his attention is solely focused on Achilles. The other man catches his stare, amusement twinkling in his eyes. Looking down at his menu, he tries to settle his stomach, to muster up some sort of appetite. It goes about as well as one would think so he clears his throat instead, deciding to distract instead.

“How was your trip?”

Achilles hums around the rim of his mug. “Good. I like buses more than planes – there’s more to see, y’know?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Neither sound appealing to him; flying is suffocatingly cramped but buses aren’t much better and the rides are longer. They’re different people but Patroclus would ride whatever Achilles wanted him to. Which sounds dirtier than he means. He’d certainly never say it out loud even if he weren’t scared of revealing his giant, unrequited crush.

The conversation shifts. They talk about what Achilles did before the bus ride. It’s not like their regular phone calls hadn’t already covered this but it’s nice to hear about it in person, even if he has to control his expressions this time. He could never get tired of hearing about the places Achilles has been, the people’s he’s met, or the wild things he’s done. Patroclus is passionate about his studies but pulmonary edemas aren’t half as exciting as smoke-filled bars in the New Mexico desert.

Their food is quick to arrive once it’s been ordered. Laden with sodium, it leaves him thirsty but filled. He also feels happier than he has in a while, slipping easily back into old ways with Achilles. It’s not that he was unhappy before but the other man is like the sun. He shines light into Patroclus’ world without fail – even as they step back outside and into the dark, early morning world.

 

 

Patroclus wakes up much too early the following morning. Not following – the same morning. They get home around three and crash in his room, Achilles taking the air mattress despite being offered otherwise. They’re asleep before four but eight rolls in all too fast. The alarm beside his head starts beeping at a pitch loud enough to wake the dead. Achilles groans when he shuts the sound off.

“Did we have to wake up this early?”

Sighing, Patroclus’ stares at his ceiling – at the popcorn texture, at the odd specks of dirt. “Forgot to turn it off.”

He rises from the bed then, eyes darting over to his guest. His friend? His crush? Best to stick with guest. It’s also best not to pay attention the exposed skin from where his sheets have ridden. It’s too early in the morning for ogling (even it was allowed).

“Are you hungry?” he asks, looking away and swinging his legs out of bed. He pulls on a pair of fluffy socks, counting the seconds of silence in his head. “Achilles?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answers, voice muffled by a yawn. Patroclus nods to himself and gets out of bed. Achilles’ is propped up on his elbows, blinking groggily at the room around him. Leaving him to his devices, Patroclus’ softly shuts the door behind him and heads to the kitchen.

He’s doesn’t think either of his roommates are here. He knows for sure that one is at his girlfriend’s and the other is usually up before him. Not that he minds; it’s nice to have some time for just the two of them. It’s only been months but it feels like years since they’ve had this chance – and it feels like an eternity since their carefree high school days, the ones where they were inseparable from the time they woke up in their shared bedroom to the time they went to sleep.

His thoughts are sparse as he starts breakfast. He’s tired and his head feels foggy with deprivation; even if it was all clear, he’s not sure what there is to think about. Plans? He doesn’t have any. He doesn’t know when Thetis will swoop in and drag Achilles off – it could be at any moment and, certainly, it’ll be at the first chance she gets. So, instead of fretting and worrying, he focuses on the food. Eggs, bacon, toast, and some mixed fruit.

As he plates the last of it, he shoots a furtive look over his shoulder and towards the door to his room. Achilles still hasn’t emerged. Double-checking he’s turned off the burners, Patroclus starts back towards his room. It’s still dark when he opens the door, the only light slipping through the cracks in his blinds, but it’s evidently enough. While he’d been expecting otherwise, Achilles is awake. Patroclus clears his throat causing his head to shoot up and their eyes to meet. There’s something in his hands.

“Looking through my stuff?” he asks, half-amused.

“There’s another word for that,” Achilles replies, setting the item back on the bedside table. A picture frame, Patroclus realizes. It’s a picture of the two of them at Fern Canyon during spring break of their senior year. There’s water splashed across their clothes and blinding grins on their faces after messing around in Prairie Creek. It’s one of his favorite pictures.

“I’d only consider it snooping if you were looking through my diary.”

Achilles’ lips curl into a grin as he unfurls from the bed. “Couldn’t find it. Now… What’s for breakfast?”

Achilles is unsurprisingly content with the meal choice. He takes more than half of what Patroclus’ cooked and shovels it down. Despite attacking the food with the ferocity of a starving man, there’s something almost graceful in the way he does so. Or maybe he’s just got rose-tinted glasses. He decides that’s equally possible as he starts on his own food, eating at a much slower pace.

They kickback in the living room once the plates have been cleaned and put in the dishwasher. Achilles digs the remote out of the couch cushions (along with a highlighter, two pennies, and a bobby pin) and turns on the television. He flips through the channels, never resting on one for long. Some have called that habit impatience – gotten annoyed by it – but Patroclus’ has adapted to the whirlwind speed he operates at. He’d be concerned if Achilles went any slower.

They talk as the channels pass by. It’s not like they have anything new to say to each other but they say it all again anyways. They talk about Patroclus’ studies and Achilles’ music. They talk about professors and fellow students, homework and tests. Patroclus listens in great detail to tales about a bouncer with one ear and an open mic poetry night that devolved into a fist fight over whether aliens are real. Their stories reveal two wholly different lives yet their conversation flows as easily as wine.

Minutes and hours tick by and they pay attention to neither – only each other, and the only thing to bring them back is the buzz of Achilles’ phone. Patroclus’ stomach sinks as he answers it. _Thetis_. Her name doesn’t need to be said for him to know who it is.

“Mom has a late lunch planned with some cousins – she wants me to be dressed and ready in an hour,” he says, placing the phone down and stretching his limbs. Not even the hint of taut skin can reach him through his disappointment. “And she’s probably got other plans afterwards but…” Achilles stands up and shrugs. “I’ll be back when I can.”

Patroclus nods. “If you’ve got to get back on the road…”

“I’ve got all the time in the world.” Achilles reaches out, his fingers brushing his cheek – a jolt of electricity surges through his veins. “I’m not the one with deadlines and responsibilities. Or patients.”

That earns Achilles an eye roll. “I’m not a doctor yet.”

“You will be soon enough,” he says, starting towards the bathroom, “and I’ll be your first patient.”

“You better not,” Patroclus grumbles, answered by a laugh that drifts from the doorway. He sinks back into the chair, eyes sliding shut. It feels too soon but Achilles is right – he’s only got the places he wants to be to go to and Patroclus will always be there for him.

 

 

The face of the bed-side clock read 1:32 AM in a boxy, red font; the reading lamp beside it is the only source of light illuminating Patroclus’ room. Both of his roommates still aren’t home – one stopped by to grab himself a pair of clothes, eyes blood-shot, voice slurred, and his entire demeanor demanding that Patroclus not ask questions. He didn’t. His other one is also living it up though with his girlfriend. Good for him is all he can say – as long as they pay their share of the rent, Patroclus doesn’t care what they do with themselves. Not having to listen to their snoring or fight with them over the bathroom is a perk.

Speaking of the bathroom, he’s done with it. Brushed his teeth, washed his faced, and finished his night time routine. His pajamas are on, the front door is locked, and all that’s left to do is crawl into bed. His eyelids feel heavy as he sits on the edge of the bed, staring as the time on the clock changes to 1:33. His gaze trails away, landing on the picture frame. He picks it up.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at this hundreds of times before. It’s there when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep. It’s background noise in his everyday life yet, sometimes, one has to stop and observe those things.

The frame is heavy in his hands and the memories weigh on his mind. That weight is comforting though, like a hug or a heavy blanket. He undoes the latches on the back and pulls the picture out, setting aside its trappings. His thumb brushes over their smiling faces. He thinks back to that moment, tries to remember which of their high school friends took it. Someone they’ve lost contact with, someone whose places in their lives is behind him. It makes him wonder…

Will they drift apart?

Will Achilles find somewhere to settle one day? Maybe, on one of his middle-of-nowhere stops, he’ll meet someone and they’ll talk into the wee hours like they do. And maybe, during that conversation, Achilles will feel the way Patroclus’ does during all their midnight conversations. Maybe he’ll stay there, get some job that keeps his hands and mind busy. Maybe he’ll come back with a ring on his finger and a smile as bright as the sun. Maybe.

Patroclus turns the picture over in his hand, derisively huffing at his nearly indecipherable scrawl on the back. In black sharpie, under the influence of his massive crush, he had written _Patroclus + Achilles_ and drawn a heart around their names. He’d forgotten about that. Suddenly, he’s incredibly grateful for the frame that hid it. He doesn’t need Achilles knowing about how weak he’s been for so long.

He’s startled from his thoughts when his phone buzzes. Shaking his head, he drops the picture on its frame and picks up the device. _New message from ACHILLES_ , it reads. Sometimes he’s concerned about how little his friend seems to sleep but he opens the message anyway.

_‘Are u awake?’_ It reads

_‘Yeah_ , _’_ he replies.

_‘I’m in the parking lot.’_

Patroclus squints at the message. It’s 1:42 in the morning but okay. He tells Achilles to come up, grinning at the screen as the message sends, and then setting his phone aside. He reassembles the frame and puts it back where it belongs, heading towards the door and opening it just as Achilles knocks.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he greets.

Achilles shrugs, stepping past him and shucking off his coat. He tosses it onto the coat rack and then turns to Patroclus.

“Got into an tiff with mom,” he says, somehow making the word _tiff_ sound normal and nonchalant. He’s a miracle worker. “Also… I’ve been thinking about something all day,” he continues.

If Patroclus didn’t know Achilles like the back of his hand – better even – he wouldn’t recognize the signs of nervousness. The change is incredibly subtle. But Patroclus does recognize it and it makes his stomach do somersaults. “Is everything okay?” he asks, brows furrowing, heart thudding against his ribcage.

His answer doesn’t come in the form of words. It comes in the form of something straight out of a daydream – or a fairytale. He steps towards Patroclus, reaching up and placing his hand on his cheek. Then he pulls him forward and their lips meet. Patroclus freezes, Achilles’ warmth spreads across his skin. His mind races. _What, how, when, where, why, who_. The hell?

“Did you not like that?” he asks, pulling back.

“I don’t…” He trails off, staring at Achilles’ collarbone peeking out from beneath his shirt. “Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to.” His voice is deep but quiet when he answers. “And I saw your note on the picture.”

The picture?

Oh. Right. The one he’d been looking at that morning. The one Patroclus had just been reminiscing about. The one he’s just been thinking about how grateful he was that Achilles hadn’t seen the back of. Talking about jinxing himself.

But… Jinxing yourself is something _bad_. This isn’t bad. It’s good. It’s everything Patroclus has ever wanted – to be loved the way he loves Achilles. It’s everything he ever thought he could never have.

Screw it.

Patroclus leans forward. The execution isn’t perfect but he kisses Achilles again. He surprises him but rather than being paralyzed with shock, he returns the kiss. _This is everything he has ever wanted._

“Were you planning to stay the night?” he asks as they pull apart.

“I was planning to stay as long as you’ll have me.”

The word _forever_ rests on the tip of Patroclus’ tongue but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he grabs Achilles’ hand and leads them towards his room. The bedside clock reads 2:06 AM but it’s already been the best day of his life.


End file.
